Those cut-off thoughts that always leave a trace in my mouth—incomplete and just murmuring to nothing. Those cries of dread when something never stops aching; thus, a question lingers about why the heaviness of the heart pricks to stay. Those unsaid feelings—simple apologies, a "thank you," "you taught me to love," "you made me raw, real, and true," and why I never ever said the word "I love you." Those fed-up times that fall off like a gunshot residue—oh, dear humility, such lovely humility, I've thwarted to forget you; indeed, I did. Those young and innocent wishes I murdered, along with what's sweet and divine. Those good and bad memories that would visit me time by time—hello, these are the very last words I will ever write.
Exhibit #1: What if this is the last time I ever hold a pen?
YOU ARE READING
a collection of odd stories in jane doe's head
PoetryWhat of life? What of death? Here we have an unnamed character swallowing different kinds of worlds through her imagination. One question rises in her head, then another. It's quite a tale, isn't it? None like no other.
